


Waste Your Worry On Me

by raven_aorla



Series: Our Agency [10]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Non-Binary Character, Canon Queer Character, Concussions, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Master Hacker Ada, Spies & Secret Agents, Vulnerability, emetophobes beware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24366481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: If you're friends with someone who does a lot of secret, dangerous work, and offer to give them shelter if they ever need it, be prepared to have them take you up on it.[If you've read "Long Journey to Now" and "Short Leap to Never Was", that will suffice for preparation.]
Relationships: Charles d'Eon de Beaumont & Hans Hermann von Katte, Charles d'Eon de Beaumont & Peter Karl Christoph von Keith, Friedrich II von Preußen | Frederick the Great/Hans Hermann von Katte, Hans Hermann von Katte/Peter Karl Christoph von Keith, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Our Agency [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/585238
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Waste Your Worry On Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mildred_of_midgard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildred_of_midgard/gifts).



> One last gift for mildred_of_midgard, and a wish for my friend's good health.

It was another of those nights where the requirements of their respective jobs and their asymmetric hours meant Hans was at work and Peter was relaxing alone at home. He’d gotten into terrarium gardens recently, a few well-matched little plants in a humid glass jar with some figurines to create a scene. He’d made a tiny house out of clay and was now adding it to his scene with tweezers. Then his phone rang.

“Hello?”

The English-speaking female voice was all business. Very serious business. “Mr. Keith, Chev’s in trouble. You need to do exactly as I say.”

Feeling a cold chill down his spine, Peter replied, “I need some assurance that you are their friend, or at least on their side, and not laying a trap.” He knew this day might come, and had resolved to make that his first question.

“Smart. Okay, their preferred variety of wine is rosé, they are an excellent amateur poker player, they are extremely excited by Olympic fencing and martial arts, they met you while trying to find your partner’s remains under the mistaken belief that he was dead, they’re in an open marriage in which neither spouse wears wedding rings, when they’re stressed they like baking pastries, when they’re sick they like cozy or funny mystery novels -”

“I believe you now.” Peter hadn’t even known that last one. “Who are you?”

“Call me the Countess. I’m their friend and also their technical support when an assignment requires. I’ve convinced someone to drop them off at an address not too far from where you are.”

Peter set his tools aside and started getting ready to leave. “Convinced?”

“I told him that if he does the job and tells no one, he’ll get a few hundred Euros deposited into his bank account, but if he doesn’t or if he is indiscreet about it, his wife and his girlfriend are going to find out about each other’s existence shortly. I keep my promises.”

“No wonder you two are friends. You’re both terrifying.”

“Thanks.” The Countess genuinely sounded pleased for a moment before switching to authoritative concern. “Take a first aid kit and some water with you. I’m about to send you the address so you can easily look it up. If possible, avoid hospitals. The people who did this to Chev are looking for them. Don’t contact anyone about this. Don’t even tell Hans until he gets home. I will alert everyone necessary. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Hurry.”

Twenty minutes later, Peter parked in front of a small, closed office building on a side street where nobody else was to be seen. He waited less than five minutes before a gray car pulled up next to him. A door opened up and Chev stumbled out, looking so wobbly on their feet that Peter quickly got out of his car to assist them. The other car sped away.

“Hi, Peter,” Chev said, giving a small wave. From here, Peter could see a black eye, a split lip, and a trail of dried blood that suggested a recent nosebleed. Their dark knitted beanie hat, jeans, black motorcycle jacket, and navy blue Adidas shoes were hiding any other possible injuries from view, but Chev was squinting even in the dim light. They were speaking English, which was probably easier for them. “It’s bright.”

“It really isn’t, honey,” Peter said with a frown, and helped them into the passenger seat.

Chev winced and hissed while fastening their safety belt. “Got punched in the ribs. Hurts to breathe hard. I did the job, you know. I got it done. But then I had to get out again. That part didn’t go as well. They went blah blah blah we have ways of making you talk, here’s a needle, whee, also here’s a few fists just for flavor. I don’t know what it was but it feels like sodium pentothal. It has that kinda fuzzy. My boss knows I got it done, so that’s good. I don’t remember how I got out, but my head got hurt.”

Peter got into the driver’s seat and made sure the doors were locked for at least a shred of safety, then gave Chev a moist towelette to clean their face. “Would you like a painkiller?”

“Don’t waste your worry on me.”

“I’ll do whatever I want with my worry.” Chev seemed stable enough for Peter to wait for home’s security and better lighting, so Peter started driving again. He found each coherent sentence Chev produced reassuring, so he asked, “How do you know what sodium pentothal feels like?”

“Basic resistance training. It doesn’t make you tell the truth, makes you compliant and uninhibited. I’m good at not complying and being inhibited as fuck. Confused them, instead. I’m very confusing, everyone says, especially my mom.” Chev blinked a few time, then looked at Peter as if baffled. “How’d I get here?”

“The Countess told me to pick you up.”

“Okay, cool, cool, she’s on the ball.” Chev lightly poked at their side and hissed again. “I got punched in the ribs. Hurts if I breathe too hard.”

 _Concussion._ Peter kept the distress off his face. “Don’t breathe too hard.”

“I got the job done. My boss knows I got the job done.”

“Good.”

“Mm. They hit me. And injected something. But I got out. Tried to knock me out but didn’t.”

“I’m glad.”

“I think I’m gonna lose my lunch.”

“Excuse me?”

Unfortunately, Chev had used a euphemism Peter was unfamiliar with, so he didn’t manage to roll down a window or take any other measures in time. Chev managed to twist around and vomit in the back of the car rather than on themself. And immediately looked like a kicked puppy. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Peter said soothingly, handing Chev a bottle of water. “It’s easy to clean up later.”

“Does the Countess know I got out?”

“Yes. Drink your water.”

Chev drank, and proceeded to rehash pretty much the entire conversation two more times. Though they managed not to vomit again until they were in the apartment, and aimed for the kitchen sink with eighty percent success. This sapped much of their remaining energy. They took a few sips of fruit juice and some paracetamol without comment.

Part of Peter wondered if Chev would have been so quick to lie on the blanket and pillow Peter hastily spread on the carpeted floor, then take their shirt and pants off, if it hadn’t been for that sodium pentothal. But Chev had already given Peter and Hans their medical records and explicitly given consent for the pair to breach their privacy in an emergency. It wasn’t terribly scandalous, but Chev was wearing a flattening sports bra combined with men’s briefs, while their waist and hips had a bit of a feminine curve that the cut of the jeans must have been concealing. None of that really mattered. What mattered was all the livid black and blue bruising pretty much everywhere. Removing the hat revealed no external head wound, at least. Their wrists also had marks that showed they’d been bound together, though Peter’s expertise didn’t extend to figuring out how. During his own criminal career, he’d only ever stolen from houses when nobody was home.

“Can’t tell you what I was doing,” Chev said. “It’s really bright in here.”

“I’ll turn the overhead light off, but I need the lamp to see you.”

“Okay.”

"I like your tattoo." A green vine with purple flowers in delicate watercolor style wound their way under Chev’s bra and curled back out again. Peter could visualize it as a partial wreath around Chev's heart.

"Thanks, it's sweet peas," Chev said, eyes squeezed shut until Peter reduced the "glare".

Peter did a quick Internet search to refresh his memory. It had been a long time since he’d had to smuggle an even more severely injured Hans onto a plane and tend to him as best he could. It looked like there was nothing much that a doctor could do for Chev’s current state - assuming they really were dosed with a small amount of sodium pentothal and nothing more severe - that a concerned friend couldn’t do. He wrapped a bag of frozen vegetables in a tea towel and returned to Chev’s side to apply to the potentially cracked rib area. He didn’t want to be putting anything on Chev’s face that Chev might allow to block their airways while dazed or asleep, so their black eye would have to wait for its own ice pack.

“I’m afraid you are supposed to breathe deeply to avoid pneumonia, but the ice and painkillers should help make it less uncomfortable to do that,” Peter said.

“Bra’s tight too,” Chev complained. “Don’t have to fully bind since I got the breast reduction, but this bra’s still tight.”

“I’ll get you a clean, loose shirt to wear, okay? You don’t have to bare all. Let’s get you to the bed so you’ll be more comfortable.”

“Sofa,” Chev insisted. “You only have one bed.”

“It’s not a pullout. We’ll make it work.” Though he wasn't sure how.

Chev looked confused again. “How did I get here?”

Peter gave up on arguing, and settled for removing the back cushions of the sofa to create more space to lie down, as well as putting sheets and blankets on it. Chev changed into borrowed sleep clothes without help, rinsed their mouth with mouthwash since there wasn’t a spare toothbrush, and promptly burrowed into the improvised setup. Dim memory plus fresh internet sources told Peter it was safe to let Chev sleep as long as he woke them frequently.

An hour later, Peter stood by the sofa and said, “Chev, I just need confirmation that you are capable of waking up. Chev?”

Chev buried their face in the pillow. “Go away, Pierre, I’m on vacation.”

“Okay, I also need confirmation that you can recognize me if you open your eyes.”

After a peek, Chev said, “Sorry, Peter, you guys have similar energies.”

“Thank you?” He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded nice enough.

“The last time I pretended to forget what I was, I was faking. I wanted to win the argument about the sofa.” They smiled dopily and settled back down again.

Peter snorted and felt better about Chev probably not being too brain-damaged.

***

Hans got a text saying that Peter had accidentally dropped his toothbrush in the toilet and wanted a new one, and could Hans please buy one on his way home? Which meant Chev had recently collapsed over their threshold, or the equivalent, with nothing but the clothes on their back, and Peter didn’t think it was safe to say so directly. If Peter ever really did drop his toothbrush in the toilet, he’d fish it out and boil it sterile. He’d grown up getting a new toothbrush on Christmas (along with a few pieces of candy and maybe one modest toy) and being expected to make it last the year. Though Hans had coaxed him into replacing his toothbrush every three months as a relatively prosperous adult.

A nearby branch of Migros was open by now, so Hans got a toothbrush for Chev and a few foods he knew Chev liked, or that were good for generic nursing-back-to-health. A basic makeup set caught his eye when taking a shortcut through the aisles, and he put that in his basket too. It might help make Chev feel more themself if they had a femme-day during their stay. He wouldn’t dare get any clothes without further consultation. Peter and Hans had discussed the possibility of keeping a hidden “Chev-mergency” kit by default, but eventually decided it might be overkill and wasn’t worth the risk of someone else stumbling across it and asking questions. It was enough to hide an envelope containing three precious objects: the memory stick containing Chev’s medical information, a piece of paper printed on both sides with some sort of code, and an authentic-looking backup passport.

Dawn was breaking when Hans got home. He paid extra attention to if anyone might be following him, taking a less direct route just in case, and watched for anything or anyone unusual. He used a special knock instead of simply letting himself in, to reduce the chance of blundering into a hostage situation.

Peter, in sweatpants and tee and rumpled look suggesting very poor sleep, opened the door and ushered him in swiftly without a word. Only a single floor lamp was casting soft light upon the main living area. On the sofa, Chev slumbered peacefully, looking like they’d been in a bar brawl. One of their arms was dangling off the side, having slipped free of the blankets, and Hans handed the shopping bag to Peter to get a closer look at Chev’s wrists.

“They don’t remember how they escaped because they got a concussion in the process,” Peter murmured. Chev seemed to be sleeping too deeply to wake at that.

“Those marks are from plastic zip ties. There are a few ways to get out of them if you know how and can handle a little pain.” Hans remembered coaching his Frederick, at seventeen, on how to appear cowed and hold one’s wrists out to be bound in the way that will actually be most advantageous for breaking free. “When are you next due to wake them?”

“Eight minutes. I’m so glad you’re here.” They headed for the bedroom so Hans could change out of his work uniform and Peter could intersperse exposition with kisses, with the door open in case of any sounds of distress.

“You’ve been waking them up every hour all night?” Hans asked at the end of the story, impressed and concerned. Peter was going to need a lot of coffee if he was going to survive his next shift at the restaurant.

“I’m going to crash now, if I may. I can still get a few hours in before they need me to whip the lunch waitstaff into shape.” Peter took out his phone and disabled the alarm titled WAKE GUEST.

Hans pointed at the bed. “I insist on it.”

“You’re so [yawn] manly and commanding, best of power bottoms, I love you.” Peter tucked himself in and fell asleep almost immediately.

While waiting the last few minutes for the new alarm on his own phone to go off, Hans got himself a drink and a pear from the fruit bowl and had a few sips and bites. At the tinny chiming, Chev opened the eye that wasn’t sporting a big puffy purple mark. "Hans?"

"Yes, it's me. How are you feeling?"

"Thirsty." Sitting upright seemed to wear Chev out, so Hans filled up a cup to bring to them.

Once the cup was in Chev's hands, Hans added, "I'd like to check your temperature, pulse, and pupil dilation. You may or may not remember that my job in security requires a level of first aid training Peter's doesn't." The truly notable skill Peter had was being able to stay calm and kind in a crisis, which was significant.

"Forgot, but that makes sense." A little water spilled out from one corner of Chev's mouth as they drank. They wiped it away. The oral thermometer and having a light shone in their eyes didn't faze Chev, but they flinched strongly when Hans touched their wrist.

"Sorry," both people said at the same time.

"You don't need to be sorry," Hans countered. He was the one who'd forgotten that Chev had at least two reasons for such a reaction. "Is there a way to make this less stressful?"

"I know it should feel more intimate, not less, but I'd prefer if you just put two fingers below my jaw. I'd do it myself if I wasn't concerned I'd have trouble keeping count."

Every metric was in the acceptable range, so Hans cleared Chev to go back to sleep. "Would you like a sleep mask? Peter kept the ones all the planes handed out for free on our vacation. It's only going to get brighter and brighter in here."

"Thank you, but probably best not to set myself up for a few seconds of panic when I wake up before I recall that I voluntarily blindfolded myself." Chev returned to a horizontal position and pulled the blankets up to their chin. "I still don't remember anything from a few minutes immediately before or after I got bonked over the head. Maybe I never will."

Hans moved the cup of water to a less precarious position on the coffee table. "Maybe it's good riddance."

Now Chev's voice was barely audible, and their French pronunciation had grown sloppy. "I knew it wasn't the same this time, but while they were letting me stew a bit before starting with any questions, I kept having to push away thoughts about the first time people took me captive. That first time, I overheard one of my captors, uh, going through great lengths to convince the other one not to, you know, brutally rape me. Personal revenge is so much nastier, right? At least last night was pure business."

Hans' hands wanted to curl into fists. He resisted. "You're safe here."

"I believe you." Chev gave Hans a tired smile, then turned to face the back of the sofa in polite dismissal.

Hans ate a light meal as quietly as possible. He would be eating again with Peter when he woke up in a few hours, since doing things together during their overlapping time was an important way to tide them over between weekends, when they could synchronize. Afterwards he fetched their shared laptop from its charging station in the bedroom to put some time in with the English-learning program Peter had bought him for his birthday - along with headphones for the listening exercises. He set up camp at the dining table to continue keeping an eye on the guest.

Chev gave a thumbs-up the first time Hans woke them, but the second time they muttered, “You can switch to less frequently by this point. I was running on way too little sleep beforehand. I need some deep sleep or I’ll go crazy. I try to be well-rested before executing something complicated, but it’s not always an option.”

“Fair enough, sorry,” Hans said.

“It’s okay, you’re doing your best.” Chev looked a tad embarrassed. “Could I have a small pillow or something to hold? A stuffed animal would do, but I don’t think you have any. I...I like having a focus point for my arms, and Pierre wouldn’t fit in my luggage for this trip.”

Hans smiled at the mental image of Chev’s husband emerging from an oversized suitcase. “Actually, Peter has a soft toy version of a lion mascot. He won’t mind.”

The way Chev clung to Goleo(?) from the Germany 2006 World Cup confirmed Hans’ suspicion that this wasn’t only about any sleep position habits Chev might have normally. Escaping from a situation of such pain and fear would shake up anyone. Hans hadn’t forgotten his own experience over the decades. Which was perhaps why Chev was being relatively transparent with him, as any “truth serum” in a low enough dose not to render Chev unconscious should have worn off by now.

A few minutes into another few language exercises, he got a text message in English on his phone from an unknown number. _It’s the Countess. Cover your webcam. You have sauce on your face. No harm done yet. Call this number when friend is ready to talk._

Damn, that’s what Hans got from relying on training from before the digital era. Dwelling on it would do him no good, though, and he trusted the Countess if she said no harm had been done so far. The camera hadn’t been facing Chev and the laptop had been folded shut during their recent conversation, so an enemy hacker would have learned nothing useful. He found a sticky note which he trimmed to fit the border of the laptop screen, put it over the offending dot, then checked his face in the mirror. Yes, there was a small mustard smear on the corner of his mouth.

Another text: _Perfect. You guys are great. Glad friend has you._

_You are scary somewhat._

_:)_

He turned off the laptop for the time being and fetched his nice stationery. Fritz was an enthusiast of handwritten letters - though supplemented by video calls once or twice a month - and there was no better way for Hans to soothe old aches. Not that he’d mention Chev without permission. There were other things to write about.

****

“That’s adorable,” Peter whispered when he emerged into the living room after his morning shower. Cuddling Goleo VI, Chev looked like a child who’d nodded off on the sofa, too tired to make it to their room. Though Peter hoped to never see a child with bruises like that.

“If you take a picture I’ll smash your camera,” Chev muttered as they sat up. “I mean, good morning. Hans has been very quiet, but he’s insisted on making breakfast all over the place.”

“Do you want to join us?” Hans asked.

“I very much would, thank you. No coffee, though, I want to sleep without interruption for a while after this.” They probably had next to nothing in them by this point, poor thing.

Peter and Hans chatted about ordinary things while Chev ate in eager silence. Hans didn’t mention the Countess getting in touch until Chev started slowing down.

“That woman sounds like she could be quite the supervillain if she wanted,” Peter commented. He checked his watch. He still had about fifteen minutes left, he’d been so eager to see how Chev was doing.

“I might as well give her a call before you go, Peter, in case I learn something it’d be useful for you to know.” Chev accepted Hans’ phone and went to another room for privacy. Moments later, though, they returned. “She says she only wants to talk about things that you’re allowed to know about and might be relevant for you, so I’ll put her on speaker. She only speaks English, though."

"I know several computer languages," the Countess pointed out cheerfully as Chev set the phone on the table. "In brief: our opponents have a decent hacker working for them and I don't advise taking chances, so all communication goes through me until you're home. Your fee has been deposited in your account. The boss is pleased, your supervisor is pleased but concerned."

"Tell my supervisor that I wish head injuries worked like the little nap taps in action movies, but otherwise I just need some rest," Chev said, even as they winced from a deep breath.

"Since the client arranged your hotel, they've been able to have the stuff you left in your room recovered and sent to them, as I'm the only one who knows exactly where you are. They want to know if you can meet for a debriefing in two days."

Chev explained to Peter and Hans in French, "Usually I don't know who my client is, just that they aren't on my list of people I refuse to work with. Keeps me from being able to give up their name under pressure. Do you two think I'll be okay in two days?"

"Most likely," Hans said.

Peter stood up. "Though we will be sad to see you go."

"Tentative yes, Countess," Chev said, switching back to English. "Can you record me saying a quick proof of life message for the person who needs it?"

"Recording."

Chev picked up the phone and said, very gently: "No Pokemon or teamwork needed. The long lost found me. You know the things I should say more often. End recording."

"Aww. And end conversation. Take care." The softness of her voice confirmed Peter’s impression that the Countess had a strong affection for Chev outside of work.

Peter took his leave after that. The workday was no more stressful than usual, with only mundane challenges like a lunch reservation mixup, a squabble between two of the servers, a marriage proposal falling flat over dessert and creating an awkward atmosphere for absolutely everyone in the dining room, and a temporary shortage of the specific cut of beef needed for certain dishes until someone made an emergency run to a nearby butcher. Peter thought about Chev from time to time, but always gently escorted those thoughts to the back of his mind for now.

****

After Peter left, Chev expressed a desire to take a shower, so Hans found a clean towel and another set of comfortable clothes for them to borrow. “We’ll wash your clothes soon.”

“Thank you. It’s better to handwash the beanie, which I can do myself,” Chev said. “Friedrich knitted it for me. Very sweet of him.”

Given how that name had popped up in multiple memorable ways in his life, it took a moment for Hans to realize that Chev was talking about Friedrich von Steuben, who used to work for Fritz. His relationship with Chev’s husband apparently predated theirs, yet was still ongoing and fairly serious. Fritz and Francesco had introduced Hans and Peter to him and what he called his “primary partner” over dinner once during their vacation in America. Everything was cordial and von Steuben was likable enough, but Hans had found it a tad uncomfortable to be around someone who’d been with Fritz (in more ways than one) during Fritz’s darker days.

“I have an odd request,” Chev continued. “Is it okay if I leave the door slightly open while I shower? I don’t want you to come in, but on days I’m feeling...suboptimal...for...reasons...I don’t like to have the door all the way closed. It makes me feel trapped.”

“I don’t mind. Maybe you could sing so I don’t forget you’re in there.”

Hans was joking, but [a few minutes later he could hear Chev over the running water.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B-elJDC8N7I)

_By now it’s just a simple click, not much to see_  
_You hear the tumblers catch and click and turn the key_  
_But I’ve found work and welcome everywhere I’ve been_  
_‘Cause everyone’s got someplace they wanna be let in_  
_Don’t waste your worry on me, I_  
_Always find what I need, I_  
_Come and go as I please, I’ve got my skeleton key_  
_Don’t waste your worry on me, I_  
_Always find what I need, I_  
_Come and go as I please, I’ve got my skeleton key_

He went to bed wondering if it was merely a song, or if Chev was trying to bolster their confidence. He slept soundly until his phone rang.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Fritz said. “I’ve lost track of what you’d be doing at this time of day.”

“Don’t worry about it. Is there something wrong?” Hans loved Peter with the intensity and conviction that only owing your life to someone and consequently building up over thirty years of trust, affection, and domesticity on top of that foundation could create. That being said, Fritz so much as sounding uncertain over a phone call was like a jolt directly to a very old part of Hans’ brain. _Must protect. Must care for._

“I would, of course, not go into detail for the sake of those involved, but Pierre is very good at getting Francesco to want to fix everything for him. And Francesco is very good at getting me to want to fix everything for him, in turn. One mustn’t underestimate a man who knows how to weaponize being cute. Either of them. Do you see my dilemma?”

Hans chuckled and adjusted his pillow. “My advice is to tell both of them that all is well, or will be soon.”

“Is that true?”

“It is. Do you still remember when I taught you how to get out of plastic zip ties?”

“I never ended up using that lesson, but yes, I do. Why?”

“I like knowing what you remember. About us.” Hans sighed. “I guess _certain_ recent events have stirred up my emotions.”

“As long as I’m sound of mind, I will remember every moment I’ve ever spend with you,” Fritz said with unexpected fierceness.

“Oh.” Hans had forgotten that the direct-line-to-protective-brain phenomenon went both ways. He realized he’d been absentmindedly tracing the scars on his face that Fritz’s father’s wrath had placed there, and tucked his hand under the blanket so he’d stop.

Fritz cleared his throat. “You sound sleepy, so I’ll leave you be. My regards to everyone under your roof right now. Especially you.”

“Our regards in return. Especially mine.”

****

Chev spent the first full day sleeping, only waking up to eat, go to the bathroom, and maybe exchange a few words with whoever was around or chat vaguely with Ada on a borrowed phone. She apologized for not giving a hundred percent of her attention to their case right now, as she was also helping one of Chev’s colleagues with an assignment. Chev reassured Ada that her partial attention was worth a dozen people’s full attention. A quick Google told Chev that Augusta “Ada” Lovelace was going to be an honored speaker at a university next week, both on behalf of her own (legal) achievements and in order to present a scholarship her father had founded before she was born. So Chev was even more impressed and grateful that she was giving them so much of her time for a very reasonable percentage of their pay for this one job.

Speaking of people giving Chev attention, their hosts gave them plenty, in the unobtrusive way that people who understand cats coexist affectionately with them without overdoing it. On the first day, this meant attending to Chev’s basic needs. On the second day, Peter invited Chev to help make miniscule sheep for his terrarium, and they watched a soccer match together while Peter explained the history of the two teams at length. Hans answered Chev’s questions about how everyone from the book club was these days. He also taught them a few easy stretches to do without aggravating their injuries, and when Chev got a bad headache as a delayed concussion souvenir, he made Chev lie down and read from _Le Petit Prince_ aloud for them. Peter had picked up a copy years ago, back when still learning the language. One of the true things Chev had told Hans while posing as “Stephen” was that their mother read it to them in the original French when they were a child.

“She called me her little prince, but I guess we found out I’d been the fox that needed taming all along,” Chev commented when Hans paused for a drink of water.

“I always identified with the downed pilot who has to leave the prince behind to avoid dying in the desert,” Hans said, turning the page.

It was all very pleasant, except for the ouches and the residual baggage from how Chev got the ouches. They would definitely take three months off and book a few extra sessions with their therapist. Fortunately, this assignment had an additional hazard bonus, and the Agency would subsidize the therapy. Couldn’t have an employee go off the deep end at a bad time.

It was pleasant, but it was temporary.

“This is the address of the building where the Countess says I need to be, and when,” Chev said to both of them, writing it on an old receipt they’d found among the coffee table detritus. “I have to go in alone, but I’d appreciate it if you hung around outside until I gave an all-clear. The client’s representative will provide some form of sign that will make me know I can trust them, and will also have all my possessions except for what was in my pockets when I got frisked. Not much got taken, thankfully, just some lockpicking tools and a burner phone I can replace.”

“Was the burner phone what you used to send the distress signal?” Hans asked.

“Yes.” Ada said the client was interested in trying to use the phone to trace their enemies. Chev didn’t care either way. They were glad to be done with those people.

Peter pushed his glasses up his nose and read the address on the paper. “I can go to work late for once.”

“I can take them,” Hans said.

“We’re both going,” Peter said. “I don’t want to be worrying about you. Besides, I like drawing out goodbyes to the very last second. What would you like to do as a last activity? Something you’ve never done with us but would like to?”

Chev grinned. “Do you have a deck of cards?”

“We’re only going to play for candy,” Peter said quickly. “The Countess warned us. And you have an evil glint in your eye.”

This was how Chev ended up with a sizable mound of chocolates, which they stacked into a victory pyramid. “I used to be very good at poker, then I infiltrated a prison for a few weeks and I got _really_ good at multiple card games. There wasn’t much else to do for leisure and I had a strong motivation to gain as many favors and bartering items as possible to make my stay more pleasant. I wish I could tell you the details, because I am super proud of how that one went.”

“Maybe you can try your skills against Robert when he gets out, though I think he’s renounced the gambling aspect,” Peter said. He was the only person here with the privilege to crack gentle jokes about his brother.

“We’ll have to break my presence in your life to him in a sensitive manner, but sure.” Chev untwisted the first crinkly wrapper. They had seriously freaked Robert out when getting information out of them during that initial search for Hans’ last resting place, and felt a little guilty about it now that Robert was “Peter’s brother” in Chev’s head, as opposed to “source of intel”.

“You’re also welcome to stop by if you’re in town without being hurt first,” Hans said, eating one of the three chocolates in front of him. He handed another to Peter, who had been cleaned out. Peter gave him heart eyes in exchange.

Around the chocolate, which they were allowing to melt in their mouth, Chev said, “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Are you going to wear the same clothes I picked you up in?” Peter asked. “They’re clean and pressed, but I’m not sure if you’re worried about being recognized.”

“If you have big, sharp scissors and a reusable shopping bag you don’t mind me keeping, I can have the best of both worlds.” Chev started tidying up the cards. “Part of me wants to stay, but I really want to see Pierre soon. Plus part of the contract was that I’d get upgraded to business class on the way home if I sustained injuries in the line of duty. I wish I could thank you more.”

“Last time you were here, you healed a very old wound of mine,” Hans said. “Nothing we could do would cancel that out.”

“What eloquent one said. I’ll get you your clothes and the sharp scissors.” Peter returned with them, and the scissors, in a stylish canvas grocery tote that had a picture of a cornucopia on it.

“The makeup kit you got me will also be a big help,” Chev said, putting a hand on Hans’ shoulder in gratitude for his words, too.

When Chev appeared at breakfast, they’d cut their shirt so that it now had a deep scoop neck. They’d hidden their sports bra and the knit beanie in the tote bag, alongside the book and snacks Peter insisted on giving them for the trip. Their modest cleavage was more apparent now, especially with some contouring from the makeup to emphasize the curves. Their eyes, lips, and cheeks were all decked out in a way that still didn’t scream for attention but accentuated softness and femininity in their face.

“I can’t do much from the waist down other than how I carry myself, but these are only precautions anyway,” Chev said.

“Sissy that walk? Isn’t that what the drag queens say? Not that you are one, I know the difference, I’ve just been looking for a chance to try out that phrase,” Peter said. Chev laughed and hugged him first, though Hans was soon after.

****

Sometimes it was useful to subcontract. Even if you were an organization with immense clout and vast resources at your disposal, sometimes it was neater, simpler, to get something done through proxies. Ones who couldn’t give you up if captured, or sell you out if corrupted. Ones you could, if needed, cut loose. Good thing that hadn’t been needed in this case. “Mx. Cavalier” was effective (and stable) enough to want to hire again if possible. Also, this liaison was known to have a good working relationship with them. Real name basis and all.

“Agent James Armistead, I should have guessed,” Chev said the moment they caught sight of the CIA agent leaning against a wall in the condemned building on the outskirts of the city. Armistead had thought about meeting in a regular public place, but there was still a very slight risk of discovery by the wrong people. While this region was cosmopolitan enough to have some diversity, he still got self-conscious as an African-American man wandering around alone. Besides, one of the things that made up for the hard work and tedium of his career was the occasional chance to be theatrical.

Armistead wiggled the handle of Chev’s rolling suitcase. “What do you keep in here, bricks?”

“It’s nice to know you didn’t open it up and check.”

“Knowing you, we’d have to look out for booby traps.” He shook Chev’s hand and looked at them appraisingly. Chev was good with makeup, but not enough to hide all traces of their black eye. “Were you beaten up enough to need medical attention? Why didn’t you go the safehouse your contract offered?”

“Yeah, I really wanna go hang out with the CIA when I have a concussion, as you guys are so well known for respecting people’s rights and privacy, especially people who still are criminals even if you turn a blind eye as long as we don’t make too much mayhem and are convenient in a clinch.” Chev’s facility for sarcasm hadn’t been damaged, at least. “Don’t get me wrong, I continue to believe that you, Armistead, are a stand-up guy, but I don’t trust your superiors. I might not have known who my client was at the time, but it's not like the other possibilities were better.”

“Hey, fair enough, the important thing is that you’re here and our mutual friend isn’t going to cut me out of his life for letting something happen to you.” Lafayette was a good pal, but Armistead knew he considered Chev akin to, well, kin. Armistead checked his watch. “I’m supposed to escort you home. Our flight is in three hours. A terrorist cell has just lost a major source of funding that was being funneled through Swiss banks, so congratulations. Anything that is left to be done isn’t your purview and is beyond my paygrade.”

“Yayyyyyy,” Chev said, with medium enthusiasm. They took their phone out and set a quick text. “Sorry, still in pain, kinda grumpy. I’m sure I’ll be elated at my achievements later.”

“Where were you, anyway?” Armistead asked, resigning himself to dragging the suitcase for now. He headed for the exit.

Chev followed. “With people I trust."

**Author's Note:**

> The in-story link is to Dessa's original video for "Skeleton Key", but [this is a really cool new orchestral version that is now my theme song for Chev in action. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oz66mACFJxc)


End file.
